Pain had become his constant companion.It wasn't the sharp, temporary sting of muscle strain or the dull ache of lactic acid this was deeper. Bone-deep. Every breath seemed to tug at the damaged tissue in his ribs, every movement set off a chain of discomfort that threatened to buckle his knees.
Most people would have stopped. He knew this from his MMA days when the injury went beyond what ice baths, stretching, and grit could handle, you were supposed to rest. But this world wasn't the octagon. Here, every day off was a day weaker than someone else.
And in this world of shinobi, weakness got you killed.
So he pushed.
The morning sun barely peeked over Konoha's rooftops as he stood shirtless in the training ground, bandages still wrapped around his torso. His breath clouded in the chill air, his hands flexing as he stared at the wooden posts in front of him.
The Eight Gates techniques weren't just about strength. They were about control being able to push your body to the edge without falling off the cliff. That cliff was closer than ever now, and he was daring it to take him.
He started slow, forcing himself into a set of deep squats. The motion sent spikes of pain through his ribs, but he ignored them, exhaling slowly through clenched teeth. Each squat was deliberate, not about power but about precision making sure every muscle engaged in the right sequence.
Then he shifted to push-ups, but instead of the standard form, he adjusted his hand position each time close grip, wide grip, diamond, staggered. His goal wasn't to just build strength; it was to shock his body into adapting under pressure.
Blood pounded in his ears. The ground swayed beneath him, but he refused to stop.
His breathing exercises adapted from the Hachimon Tonkō control techniques were the only thing keeping him from collapsing. Each inhale expanded his chest in a controlled wave, each exhale shunting the pain aside, if only for a moment.
By midday, sweat dripped from his chin and pooled at his feet. His vision blurred at the edges, and a faint copper taste filled his mouth. He spat blood.
He recognized the warning sign, but instead of stopping, he doubled down.
"One more set," he muttered. "Always one more set."
He launched into a series of Konoha Senpū kicks, his injured ribs screaming with every twist of his torso. Each kick was slower than the last, but he forced the motion to remain clean high chamber, sharp extension, balanced recovery.
By the tenth kick, the world tilted. His foot hit the ground at an awkward angle, and his knee nearly buckled. He caught himself against a post, breathing raggedly.
He knew this was where most people broke.But instead, he smirked.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, he moved into his final drill of the day weighted shadowboxing. He strapped training weights to his wrists and ankles, the extra load making each movement heavier, more deliberate.
His jabs cut the air, hooks carving invisible arcs. The pain in his ribs made every punch a gamble, but he found something strange because he couldn't rely on raw force, he focused entirely on efficiency. The result? His strikes were cleaner than they'd ever been.
Somewhere in the haze of pain and exhaustion, a thought crystallized:The injury isn't holding me back it's teaching me.
It happened just after sunset. His body simply… gave out. No dramatic slow-motion fall just an abrupt shut down, his muscles refusing to respond. He hit the dirt face-first, groaning.
He lay there for what could have been minutes or hours. The night air chilled the sweat on his skin, his bandages damp and clinging.
In that stillness, he replayed the day in his head. Every movement. Every mistake. Every adjustment.
And that's when he realized something. The constant pain had forced him to strip away unnecessary motion, to cut down every technique to its most essential mechanics. The result was speed pure, sharp speed born not of power, but of precision.
This was a weapon no one could take from him.
When he finally dragged himself to his feet, the moon was high overhead. His whole body trembled, but his mind was clear.
He knew now that recovery wasn't just about resting it was about sharpening the blade even as it was cracked.
If the injury healed, he'd keep this lesson.If it didn't… then he'd just adapt again.
There was no going back.
"One more set," he whispered to the empty training ground.And he meant it.